


Upon Saint Crispin's Day

by atlas_of_wonderland



Category: American Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlas_of_wonderland/pseuds/atlas_of_wonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going back in time a little here - takes place after filming of the original Star Trek reboot but before Heroes was cancelled.</p><p>A report of a violent disturbance on the set of Heroes prompts Chris to launch a somewhat frantic search for Zach, who isn't answering his phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon Saint Crispin's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shots Fired](https://archiveofourown.org/works/197422) by [the_deep_magic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic). 



> The Shakespeare in Chris's head comes from _Henry V_ , as does the title.
> 
> The NPR pieces mentioned are as fictional as everything else in this story - which is to say: completely. I love NPR and woke to it for many years. I just thought it would be funny for Chris to beat himself up about being all 'intellectual' for liking it. And, you know, it's fiction, so I can make that call. Oh, also, I'm hand-waving a little and assuming NPR actually sounds the same all over the country. If I've somehow gotten LA NPR completely wrong I apologize to LA NPR for the inaccuracy.
> 
> My deepest apologies to all hippies, self-professed or otherwise. I don't think you're actually assholes, it's just funnier that way in this particular story.
> 
> Warning: Here there be off-stage violence and a severe case of casual swearing.

If called on it, Chris would have been embarrassed by the fact that he was enough of a pseudo-intellectual asshole that his morning wake-up call when he was home in LA was a clock radio set to NPR. Except that not one of his interchangeable bed mates had ever turned out to be self-aware enough to wake up laughing at him so, so far, it was all good.

Olivia had come closest, smiling that smile he'd never quite been able to interpret; sometimes he wished she'd been at a point in her life when she would have let him in on the secret. But she had never laughed at him with acceptance in her eyes and so he'd never felt safe enough to trade.

He was a sustaining donor to NPR, dammit. Mock him at will, he often silently challenged all the people who weren't actually, technically invading his bedroom as he stumbled through the fog of awakening each morning. (He had to admit that the paparazzi weren't setting up catapults or similar on the lawn. Though, come to think of it, a moat might actually feel reassuring.) But they couldn't label him a hypocrite. He enjoyed picturing the daily line item that debited the three dollars each day.

The significance of this life choice only became relevant on that particular day because Chris was being more than usually self indulgent. He was on snooze number okay-he-might-have-lost-count-by-now after willfully abandoning any possibility of setting off on his morning run. He had, perhaps, overindulged slightly the night before and not fallen into bed until significantly later than normal. He was entitled, it wasn't as if he had somewhere to be. He worked hard so sometimes he played hard. He hadn't given up on the day completely, he was snoozing, he hadn't turned the damn thing off, all right? Geez.

The effect was surreal, the nine minutes between snippets of news were long enough to emphasize the off-kilter changes from the influence of the _Peanuts_ strip on modern comic artists to the mid-stream lecture on the origins and evolution of the board game to some truly annoying hippy diatribe about organic vegetables. And, okay, barring serious pesticide issues that were actually going to cause him to keel over dead, like, mid-mouthful of cauliflower - still in the act of chewing, mind you - even a half asleep Chris was calling bullshit on that load of - bullshit (half asleep, okay?). Vegetables grew in the ground and were therefore of the earth and organic (They're organic material, motherfuckers, and you need to be more precise if you're going to go global with these bullshit labels, man.) no matter what you did to them otherwise. Suck it, hippy assholes.

Comic strips and hippies aside, it was an odd day that found him still drifting along on the waves of faux news, thinking run-on thoughts, when the clock ticked past ten and Inskeep popped in to segue from a sonnet extolling the superiority of low-sodium soy sauce to a promise of upcoming discourse on the virtues of the latest blockbuster action flick. (Not something Chris was in but it sounded familiar so he refrained from hitting the snooze again in case there was a familiar name attached to it. Which was why he heard what he did a moment later.)

"In breaking news, we are receiving reports of what seems to be a violent disturbance that either has occurred or may still be ongoing this morning at a sound stage in Los Angeles. The early information that is emerging is still vague, but sources are citing calls to 911 beginning thirty minutes ago and reporting what may possibly be live gunshots inside the building. One source is asserting that filming for the NBC television series _Heroes_ was in progress on the sound stage in question when the activity began, but we have not yet been able to confirm that information. What we can confirm is that emergency services, comprised of a significant LAPD presence, multiple ambulances, and -,"

Chris's consciousness stirred at the mention of _Heroes_ , then snapped from zero to sixty in the blink it would take to release a drawn bowstring, then just as quickly narrowed its focus down to one point - Zach.

In his head _Heroes_ equalled Zach, and gunshots combined with Zach chased by the fact of ambulances had him spastically fumbling out of bed, going down hard when his knee slid off the edge of the mattress, finally lurching to the dresser where his wallet and phone had obediently spilled from his pockets the night before.

Four. Call.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"You've reached the voicemail of Zachary Quinto -,"

Disconnect.

As Chris pulled the device away from his ear he abruptly realized that his mouth was desperately dry. He wasn't sure he could have spoken had he kept the connection open. He stared at the screen with the intensity of tunnel vision brought on by blind panic.

Some lizard brain self-preservation kicked in after a moment. The words telling him about violence and his friend echoed through his mind, but he was allowed to latch onto 'vague' rather than 'multiple ambulances'. Everything was surely, absolutely had to be, fine. He didn't know anything really. The odds of reality happening upon all the same connections that his brain had just jumped to had to be like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle tumbling out of its box pre-assembled. Pre-solved? Pre-fitted? Jesus. His body slumped to the floor, the knobs of the dresser drawers hard and bruising against his back.

The thing was, though, that Heroes was actively shooting - fuck, filming, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck - right now; he knew this because Zach had mentioned it when they'd talked on the phone earlier in the week. He didn't know the show's or Zach's schedule in detail, but, well, now he couldn't remember if that was the reason they'd planned dinner for Saturday instead of earlier in the week.

Four. Call.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"You've reached the voicemail of Zachary Quinto -"

He zoned out as his friend's characteristically professional and dulcet tones politely invited him to leave a message. Chris's own phone urged callers to, 'Leave it at the beep, man.' He was a Cali boy at heart. His lizard brain commented mildly that maybe, just maybe, he should let up a little on the veggie-loving commune-hugging hippy assholes.

Beep.

"Uh." Everything conspired against his eloquence and he licked his lips a few times, trying to work up some spit and lubricate it back into existence. "Zach. Hey, I'm, um -," He didn't know what he was. "Shit." A harsh bark of laughter took him by surprise. "Once upon a time I was an English major, you know." Focus. "Jesus, okay, call me when you get this, okay? It's important, okay? I really need you not to mess around with me; call me as soon as you get this. Please." He licked his lips again, his tongue still uncomfortably dry and his voice hoarse. "Okay, well, yeah, just - if you're listening to this hang up the damn phone and call me, okay? Okay."

He didn't say goodbye.

Disconnect.

He was aware of the radio still providing a background soundtrack, droning out words to which he couldn't attach any meaning; it could have been broadcasting in Klingon for all the sense it made. His hand dropped to the floor, the slight weight of the phone suddenly seemed to be the only thing anchoring him. He felt odd, floaty and unreal and - see-through - as impossible and strange as that sounded even in the quiet privacy of his own head. And there was the English major staging a resurgence in an annoyingly existential way. Good old Samuel Beckett to his rescue. Fuck. Normally he had to counter that shit with some _Winnie-the-Pooh_ to get back on balance - original illustrations, man, no messing the fuck around.

Chris focused on breathing and trying to infuse his Beckett-assaulted soul with some heart-warming substance and solidity before it set him up for suicide watch. There was a slim volume of Cummings just a few feet away on his bedside table, but even that distance seemed unconquerable. He settled on running his mind over the familiar lines of Henry's Saint Crispin's Day speech.

_This day is called the feast of Crispian:_  
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,  
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,  
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.  
He that shall live this day, and see old age,  
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,  
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'  
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.  
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.' 

After a few minutes the radio started to make sense again as it informed him his life expectancy would be significantly increased if he, by the age of thirty-five, managed to get himself into a committed, monogamous relationship. Then he became unpleasantly aware of the fact that his knee was throbbing with pain, presumably because he had landed on it when he'd fallen off the bed. So, yeah, okay, back to reality.

Reality. What the hell was he supposed to do with a reality where one of his friends might be in a really fucking worrisome situation and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it? The idea of switching off the radio and starting up the coffee pot like he would under normal circumstances made his stomach rebel; the lump of liquid fear there spiraled into a momentary twister easily capable of facilitating at least one trip from Kansas to Oz.

He looked at his phone again.

Four. Call.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"You've reached the voicemail of Zachary Quinto -,"

Chris loved Zach's voice. He liked the way he said 'Zachary', the way his voice curled around the multiple syllables and then skipped into 'Quinto'; it sounded musical and in Chris's head it looked like an elegant round of hop-scotch performed in skinny jeans and Beatles boots.

"Seriously. If you're listening to this and haven't called me yet, you're the biggest asshole alive. Call me."

Disconnect.

Alive.

He stood up and limped into the bathroom where he downed a ton of water with a handful of pain relievers. Then he stared resolutely into the sink to avoid looking in the mirror.

The fact that had taken center stage in his consciousness was that he really didn't have many viable options for further action. He didn't conveniently have all the numbers, or even just one he admitted bitterly, of the other _Heroes_ people in his contacts. That meant he couldn't even try to reach out to someone else who might be close to what was going on.

It wasn't as if he'd ever had occasion to call Joe. He'd been on speaker with him and Zach a few times, just shooting the shit while they'd cooked dinner in Chris's kitchen, but that hadn't magically transferred the number into his phone. And Joe probably wouldn't even know anything yet, but maybe shared panic was somehow more manageable?

Was he being ridiculous to imagine that if Zach was going to call his own brother to assure him he hadn't been shot to death that he would then follow that up with a call to Christopher Pine? He'd call at least one of their _Star Trek_ family, surely. Zach was by no means heartless and he would know they would be worried. Was it self-important of Chris to think that he, as his Captain, should be his first call? Even _Star Trek aside_ , couldn't Chris assume a convenience of time zone or even just fucking roaming charges? Surely he would be a better choice of contact than Karl or Simon based on cost alone?

Seriously, fuck that international bullshit.

Chris focused and stared hard at the silver circle that lived in the bottom of his bathroom sink doing - something. He'd thought they were close - him and Zach, not him and the sink or him and the silver circle living in the bottom of it. He wondered if he'd badly misjudged their relationship. Friendship - their friendship outside work.

Had he failed Zach in some way? Despite the weighty and professional glare that Chris aimed at it out of sheer annoyance, his bathroom sink decided not to weigh in on the subject. He even sent a bit of cold water into the bowl but it just drained normally. He supposed it had been too much to hope for the bathroom sink equivalent of a skywriting fortune cookie - or something.

He and Zach - they hung out, that was the point, Chris insisted firmly to himself. He and Zach - Christopher and Zachary - who hung together in Silver Lake - had take-out places that knew their orders and their addresses, for crying out loud. So why were his only options Zach's cell or an anxious drive over to his house?

Chris mentally fumbled. What did knowing Zach's primary pizza choice, along with the two compromises he'd accept with the promise of an ice cream chaser as compensation for his sacrifice, really tell him about the man he presumed to call his friend? He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let Zach down.

Finally, he looked up to meet his own grim gaze in the mirror. Right. Dressed and over to Zach's place then.

#

It was a short drive, but by the time he arrived he was starting to feel a little silly. Crisis of friendship aside, he was overreacting, he had to be. He wished he'd paused to at least do a quick internet search to see if he could glean any more information. The radio was stubbornly not offering up any further intelligence.

He felt downright sheepish when he stepped up and rang the bell the first time. He was absolutely certain that Zach and his stupid hipster glasses were mere seconds away from pulling him and his own stupid hastily-donned walk-of-shame clothing into a hug. He'd wrinkle his nose and roll his eyes even as he hauled Chris inside for coffee. French press, man, the good shit that Chris himself never had time for at home, preferring to blink blearily as the drip pot dripped instead of, you know, having to think about boiling water.

He became distinctly less sanguine as thoughts of delicious coffee were forcibly stripped away by the continued lack of response from inside the house, and he resorted to wrenching open the screen and pounding on the ridiculous solidity of the wooden inner door. Noah was definitely home but that wasn't actually helpful in any way. In an effort to avoid traumatizing Zach's dog and, as a result, landing himself in Zach's doghouse for life, he reined himself in and called off his assault on the (in the privacy of his own thoughts he appended - relatively) innocent door.

"Sorry, Noah. Sorry, boy," he called out in what he hoped was a mellow, soothing baritone, hoping to calm the near-frantic barking that was now echoing inside the house. "Sorry."

Chris turned around and sank onto the stoop of the little concrete front porch. So. Finding no Zach at Zach's place didn't do anything to help him out with how he should be feeling about the events of the morning so far or the current state and whereabouts of Zach himself. He decided the mix of panic and embarrassment he was currently experiencing could safely be classified as 'jittery'.

He regarded his phone somewhat absently, once again lamenting its lack of Zach-related helpfulness. He noticed that the internet had connected to Zach's wireless network automatically and he pulled up a browser window to do that search to see if there was any more news. He was trying to work out exactly what phrase he wanted to search on when he realized, "Holy shit, I'm an idiot." He backspaced and typed in 'Joe Quinto photographer'. In seconds he had Joe's website up and was pasting the number into his contacts.

He dialed and a polite female voice delivered a professional greeting.

"Hi, I'm calling for Joe Quinto, please. It's a personal call. You can tell him it's Chris Pine."

"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Quinto isn't in the office right now. He's doing a shoot on site."

Chris bit back a curse. "Okay, look, is there any way you could give me a number where I can reach him right now? I know this probably sounds creepy but it's sort of an emergency and I really need to talk to him as soon as possible. I promise I actually am a friend, I know him, I'm not, I don't know, a stalker or something. And, Jesus, that's just what a stalker would say, isn't it? Sorry, sorry," he babbled out before forcing himself to _shut-the-fuck-up-already-Pine_.

She hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm really not authorized to give out his personal cell number."

He sighed. "Of course not. Right. Okay, will you give him the message that I called and ask him to call me back at this number, please?"

"Of course, sir, I'll be happy to do that." He made her repeat back what she'd written down just to be safe, then hung up.

Shit.

Back in the car, he spared a glare for his stupid, unhelpful, traitor of a phone and tossed it away from him, onto the passenger seat. Almost as if in response, the thing rang.

He stared at it, more than a little creeped out.

It wasn't Zach's ring.

He picked it up. Zoe. Huh.

"Zoe, hey."

"Chris, do you have eyes on Zach?"

Shit.

Just, shit.

If he wasn't the only one who was worried then he might not be overreacting.

Chris really, really wanted to be overreacting to this whole thing.

"Chris?"

"I'm here. Um, no, not so much. I don't suppose you happen to know his schedule?"

When she spoke again, after a pause of her own, Zoe was clearly trying to sound as calm as she possibly could. "Not exactly, but I'm pretty sure he's shooting today. Or, at least he was supposed to be, maybe," she continued hesitantly and very, very calmly, "at some point, you know how stuff changes, gets rescheduled."

"Yeah, of course, all the time," he agreed as she lied her ass off. "Where are you?"

"New York. You are in LA now, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm home. Um, He's not answering your calls?"

"Or texts."

His panic had solidified in his stomach by now and with a sickening lurch, Chris felt a slice of it shear off the glacier in his gut and bob to the surface of his consciousness. "Zoe, he's not home. He's not here. Noah's here, and I'm assuming Harold's in there too, but Zach, he's not here. I don't know where he is and I don't know any of his _Heroes_ friends, and I'm a better friend than that. I'm not just a _Star Trek_ friend, Zoe!" He mentally bitch-slapped himself for the exclamation point.

"Chris, you're not a bad friend. Calm down." He heard her take a deep breath. "I don't think the number I have for Milo is still good, but I'll try it just in case." She paused again then said in a very small voice, "I was really hoping you'd have heard from him." Before he could reply she rushed on, more decisively, "I'll try it and call you back." Then she was gone.

"This is bad. I'm really afraid this is bad," Chris said out loud in his empty car. "Is it really too much to ask that I've been overreacting? 'Cause I'm perfectly all right with looking like a prize idiot for jumping to this weird conclusion based on pretty much no information. I'd be happy to be really, really wrong and stupid right about now. And, yeah, okay, this is panic, is what this is, and my internal commas are shot all to shit now. Fuck. Real, live panic not even at the disco. I don't even like that band. Jesus. What a stupid name for a band. It's because I was thinking about exclamation points - an exclamation point is never, ever fucking necessary."

He ran his thumb up and down the side of his phone without looking at it; he flipped it around, his mind racing.

Four. Call.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"You've reached the voicemail of Zachary Quinto -,"

Chris let his friend's voice wash over his senses, letting the words slip away, unimportant. What had they talked about last? What had the last words - what were the most recent words he'd said to Zach? They'd been on the phone. Had he said, 'Love you, man,' as he sometimes did when they hung up with each other? Even if he hadn't said that, there were other things they said to each other that meant the same thing.

_You smell good._

It was the way they said them rather than the words themselves; as often as they could be all about the words, sometimes it had nothing at all to do with the words.

_Zach taking his hand and pulling Chris in his wake through whatever crowd stood in their way._

Beep.

"Zachary, I swear on all the things hipsters everywhere hold dear - seriously, sweater-vests, record players, those shirts that aren't even actually vintage but cost a fucking fortune. I don't know, golf balls? Is that a thing? Penny candy, bowling shoes, all the fucking fugly hats in existence, I swear: If you aren't both completely functional and in one piece when I track you down I will pin you to the ground and give you a week-long lecture on the symbolism of vampirism in modern literature. And I'm going to have visual aids, lots and lots of visual aids. And you're going to have to take notes and turn in an essay at the end."

Suddenly inspired, Chris's eyes lit with what Zach, had he been present, would have termed a determination fueled by possible insanity. "And after that I'm going to make you read aloud the entire Twilight Saga, and neither of us is allowed to mock one word of it while you're doing it. Then you'll have to sit through all the movies and write me a ten-page, single-spaced essay debating the merits of this epic love story being told through the different mediums.

"Then I'm going to force you to write a radio play that's better than both versions and, here's the kicker, produce the damn thing with your name branded all the fuck over it. You will go down in history as the Twilight radio guy; forget about Spock, that will be your fucking legacy, Quinto, the fucking sparkly vampires and overheating, shirt-ripping werewolves, Twilight radio play guy."

Disconnect.

Because what would be the point of threatening to hurt him physically? 

Chris dropped his head onto the steering wheel and concentrated on breathing.

_This story shall the good man teach his son;_  
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,  
From this day to the ending of the world,  
But we in it shall be remember'd;  
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;  
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me  
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,  
This day shall gentle his condition:  
And gentlemen in England now a-bed  
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,  
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks  
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. 

By the time the phone rang again he had contained the worst of the raw emotion.

Zoe didn't bother with hello. "All right, I couldn't get Milo but I left Kristen a message and a few other people too. I'm hoping we can get some sort of phone tree effect working for us. Why is no one answering their phones today of all days? Are you still at Zach's?"

"Yeah. Listen, Zoe, what have you actually heard? All I know is there were 911 calls and maybe gunshots. Have you heard anything more specific? When I heard they weren't even sure it involved _Heroes_ at all?" He heard the note of pleading in his voice as his statement turned into a question without his permission.

There was a long pause and Chris stopped breathing. Zoe's voice was shakier than it had been. "They're taking people to hospitals."

His eyes slid shut.

At least that made it clear what he had to do next. "Which ones?"

#

"Zachary, Z-A, C-as-in-cat, H-as-in-horse, A-R-Y, Quinto-Q-U-as-in-quilt-quiet-quorum-quandary-and-quagmire." Chris credited his Scrabble addiction for the swift development of his spelling patter; it had to be simple but that didn't mean he couldn't add flair. "I'm his brother, Joe," he lied without compunction or trace of regret.

Yes, he was at least a semi-recognizable celebrity now, as was Zach; no, he didn't look anything like Zach. He lied because fuck if he was going to spend a second on the sidelines of whatever this thing was. He knew that right now he was much too close; plunged into the middle of it there was no way to understand what this all looked like until they emerged on the other side and could see the shape of it clearly.

Right now it was Zach. Later it would be Zach's _Heroes_ friends and everyone else who had been terrified or even just touched by this day, the rest of their extended family who may or may not even yet know something had happened, grief and justice and maybe even some straight-up motherfucking vengeance. But right now it was intense and it was Zach.

#

"Seriously, Chris, where the fuck is he?"

Chris winced because the level of shrill in Zoe's tone had been ratcheting up significantly each time he talked to her. "I have no fucking clue," he said wearily.

They'd been calling and wheedling and downright pleading with people for a few hours now and it felt like every single second of it had been completely and utterly useless. It was as if the powers-that-be had successfully quarantined in an undisclosed location every single person who might actually know what the hell had happened on that sound stage. He supposed it made sense. Of course the studio would want to control the flow of information, but they had managed to do it so terribly thoroughly that it was boggling his mind. Chris wasn't used to higher-up management people in the entertainment industry displaying this level of competence.

His phone chimed and he pulled it away to check the screen. "Zoe, hang on, I have an unknown calling. I'll be right back." He took a breath then switched lines. "This is Chris."

"Chris, Jesus, have you heard from Zach?"

Chris sighed heavily and massaged the center of his forehead in an effort to get just a little relief from the pain that had changed from throbbing to constant about an hour ago. "Sorry, no, La Quinto is proving excessively elusive today. Who is this, please?"

"Sorry, it's Joe. You really haven't talked to him? What the hell's going on?"

For a second Chris perked up, but then realized Joe very obviously didn't have any information that was going to help. He sank into one of the uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs in this emergency room. "Hi, Joe. Yeah, we're trying to figure it out, but as far as we can tell no one's heard from him and so far I haven't been able to find him."

"Where have you looked?"

Chris swallowed hard. "His house and four different hospitals," he admitted grimly.

There was a long silence between them.

"I've been checking admissions and then ghosting around to find the people they brought in from this morning. I figured Zach would stick close to his friends if he had any choice. I've been as thorough and insistent and downright sneaky as I know how to be. I've been fucking bribing security with cold hard cash all day, Joe. I'm pretty sure he isn't inside any of the buildings I've checked." He gritted his teeth. "No one I've talked to has been able to tell me anything helpful. I just can't understand how we haven't found him. It's blowing my fucking mind."

Joe made a sound a little like clearing his throat. "I'm sorry it took so long to return your call. I didn't know what was going on and - it doesn't matter - what should we do now?"

Chris just managed to hold back laughter he suspected would have come out on the wrong side of hysterical. He checked his screen and realized Zoe had hung up so concentrated on how he could possibly answer Joe's question. He rubbed at his forehead again. "Well, let's start with the basics. This may sound stupid, but have you checked all your messages? Anywhere Zach might have called to try to get hold of you, to leave word?" Another thought hit him suddenly and he shot straight up in the chair. "Joe," he said insistently, "your mom - I didn't have any way to get in touch with her - have you checked in with her?"

"She's out of town this week, not at home," came the disappointing reply.

"It's still worth checking," he said for lack of a better response.

"Chris - yeah, okay, look - what do we think is going on here?"

"I've been trying not to think about that," he answered flatly, hating his voice and the fact that he'd lost control of it long ago, "for the last couple of hours."

#

"All right, let's just break this down."

Chris was pretty sure Zoe had started drinking since he had last talked to her because when he added her to his call with Joe she sounded almost relaxed. "Okay," he humored her, envying their ballerina her coping mechanism, "what does that mean?"

"Violent disturbance," she said and Chris flinched. "Who responds to a violent disturbance?"

"Cops, ambulances, and fire trucks," Joe offered.

"And we've checked the hospitals as thoroughly as we think we can," said Zoe in response.

Chris sighed and squirmed in the uncomfortable hospital chair he still occupied. "Yes."

"And Zach probably isn't being held prisoner by any of the local fire crews," Zoe continued.

"Sounds reasonable," said Joe.

Something started to itch at the back of Chris's brain and he massaged his forehead harder.

"So you guys should probably move on to checking police stations," Zoe concluded.

Chris could hear the frown in Joe's voice. "Why? It isn't as if he would have been arrested or something."

"No, but the police will be taking statements and things," she countered reasonably.

Chris's eyes narrowed as he connected that with his earlier musings about the studio. "Do you think," he blurted out without thinking it through, then his brain hiccuped and he started again as he realized what he was actually thinking. "Do you guys think that it's possible the studio is using the police to keep all their actors under control so that they can't say anything they don't want said?" he babbled out as coherently as he could even as the thought was still solidifying in his mind.

The response was a thoughtful silence.

After a moment Joe began hesitantly, "You mean they might have arranged for the police to round everyone up and -,"

"Just keep them quiet, keep them from talking to the media," suggested Zoe eagerly, "Somehow, basically, however they could."

"Yes, exactly," Chris said, thankful he was making any sort of sense at all. The relief that hit him at the thought of a live Zach being virtually held prisoner in an extraordinarily boring room somewhere threatened to overwhelm him and he pushed it down, down, down for now, but couldn't help asserting giddily, "They're assholes, they'd totally not care that we're all out here thinking the worst."

"So, you should, that's what you should do. You should start checking police stations," Zoe said happily.

As she and Joe started tentatively discussing strategy and pulling up maps and things, Chris's mind went somewhere else, took it all a step further. He let go and allowed the idea to coalesce until it became a little bit more than a thought, then became an actually plausible alternative, then became solid and provided a real idea, which then somehow became a plan.

"Hang on guys, I have a better idea," he interrupted them firmly. "Zoe, when did you last actually talk to or get a message from Zach?"

"Um, last week sometime. I can check my phone history."

"No, that's all right, that's fine. Joe, how about you?"

Chris held his breath, because his brother was absolutely the one who would have talked to Zach most recently.

"Tuesday morning," he answered, and Chris's eyes slid closed gratefully because it was now Thursday afternoon.

"One of you find me the closest police station. I'm about to file a missing person report."

#

"Zachary, Z-A, C-as-in-cat, H-as-in-horse, A-R-Y, Quinto-Q-U-as-in-quilt-quiet-quorum-quandary-and-quagmire."

#

The LAPD was not pleased with Chris Pine's dramatics.

Christopher, not surprisingly, didn't give a fuck.

#

"Fine," Chris said as he kicked back in the battered visitor's chair, swinging his feet up onto the desk.

The uniformed man seated behind the desk winced and glared. The sleekly suited studio rep just oozed snake oil from behind his fake smile and dead eyes.

"Produce someone I know who has personally spoken with Zachary Quinto within the last forty-eight hours or produce Zachary Quinto. If you don't do one or the other within the next fifteen minutes I'm going to have my people arrange a press conference. Then I'm going to contact all the late shows and ask each of them to give me five minutes on air to broadcast my sincere plea that all of Zachary Quinto's fans, my fans, and all the global fans of Star Trek in all its incarnations -,"

That was as far as he had to go to drive home the reality of the situation.

#

When Zach was, precisely thirteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, ushered into the extraordinarily boring room where Chris was waiting for him, he just looked confused.

"Chris? Oof." That was the sound Zach made when Chris's chest hit Zach's chest as he initiated Operation: Hug Until Surgical Removal is Necessary. "Um, what the hell's going on? They put the siren on and I kind of thought I was going to die on the way here. I got a little worried."

Chris very nearly gave in to the hysterical laughter he'd been holding in check all day, but knew that way lay madness. "You got a little worried," he repeated involuntarily, his voice breaking. "Just, shut up, okay? I need a second. Joe's on his way," he added as an afterthought.

He tightened his hold, Zach's voice wasn't nearly strangled enough for his taste. He let himself sink into the embrace, burrowing his face into Zach's neck, seeking the smell of Zach under the masking scents the day had left on him. He usually smelled mostly like his stupidly expensive shaving foam that Chris had used a time or two; he could never pick out individual scents, it was a creation that just smelled like itself, a creation uniquely its own, uniquely Zach.

After a moment he became aware of Zach rubbing comforting circles on his back and humming at him soothingly. After several more minutes these actions succeeded in relaxing him enough that he gave in to the exhaustion and slumped into Zach's arms. Under any other circumstances he would have been embarrassed because it was just one step short of swooning.

"I set my alarm to NPR," he said mindlessly as Zach tightened his hold to keep Chris from falling to the ground. "But I'm a sustaining donor, I totally support the fuck out of that shit."

Zach made a sound that was confused, concerned, and amused all at once. He moved them into a chair, pulling Chris into his lap for lack of any better option. He petted Chris's hair and his back, and continued to make soothing sounds.

Chris closed his eyes and just existed within the knowledge that Zach was alive.

#

"We thought you were dead and they were trying to hide it as long as they could."

Zach winced but forced out the explanation his brother had been waiting for. The whiskey helped. "They told us to make our calls but try to keep it to the minimum," he said quietly. He didn't want to wake Chris, who had collapsed onto his couch and fallen asleep before Zach had come back from letting Noah out into the yard. Looking up at Joe, he allowed his face to fold into sheepishness. "I forgot Mom wasn't home and it was the only number I knew without my phone. I'm really sorry that I didn't think it through enough. I probably should have tried harder to call someone official. It was just -," He fiddled with the tail of his shirt. "Zoe never stopped crying. I didn't even get to talk to her, really, and Kristen is actually angry with me. It's a little overwhelming," he finished in a rush, folding in on himself and feeling vulnerable.

"Hey." Joe leaned forward in his chair, making eye contact with him where he sat on the floor, propped against the couch where Chris lay unmoving behind him. "It's not your fault. I mean, Jesus, people got shot this morning, Zach. You were doing what you needed to do."

Zach plucked harder at the seam of his shirt. "I guess," he said, pathetically, knowing exactly the tone that would provoke the reassurance he needed.

Joe sighed, all long-suffering for show before he said, in the softest way he had, "Zach, you left Mom a message. If she'd been home she would have passed it on to me and between us we would have headed off all your friends. You did the right thing. Could you have done more if you'd had your phone? Sure. But if that had been the case you _would_ have done more. You did what you could," Joe insisted, meeting his gaze the entire time. "You did everything you were supposed to do."

Zach breathed out. He closed his eyes. Right. He breathed in again. All right. And out. He could work with that. And in. He could eventually live with that. And out, and then, more surely, in. "Thanks."

"Chris is probably going to be a little clingy for a while."

He opened his eyes and looked up to meet Joe's again. His brother was also sipping amber liquid from a weighty tumbler, his expression deliberately mild. He turned his head and allowed his gaze to run over the planes of Chris's sleeping face. 

Zach had no idea what to do with the intensity Chris had brought to their reunion. "I guess we'll see how it plays out," he said carefully, keeping his eyes guarded. "We're working together, Joe," he reminded both of them, "and we're friends outside of work. There's a lot there." He took another breath, taking in the truth and feeling the weight of what he had just said. "I shouldn't be so surprised he reacted that strongly. I - just - thinking I was dead still feels a little extreme to me," he finished lamely, waving his hand pointlessly through the air, not sure what he was feeling or wanted to convey.

"Easy for you to say. You never considered you might be dead," Joe drawled lazily, the first tell surfacing that he was a lightweight. He leaned forward, his eyes taking on a shade of intensity. "He wasn't going to stop until he found you."

Zach blinked.

After a little while Joe's somewhat confusing impression of someone talking about something actually important devolved into a whiskey-soaked bonhomie that was destined to end with him collapsed somewhere within the confines for the night. That was familiar, and Zach relaxed into it for the next couple of hours. He reached behind him to check on Chris with a gentle touch every so often. Zach took comfort in his presence and the steady rise and fall of his chest. When he touched Chris he also let his mind gently ghost over the emotional aftermath of the day he hadn't lived, but that some of his friends had. He did his best to try and begin melding the two days into one. Eventually he fell into his own bed and his own exhaustion.

Chris never stirred beyond his eyes betraying his deep REM state.

#

For some reason Chris wasn't waking up to the gentle, somewhat embarrassing, self-important strains of NPR.

He groaned out his bitter protest over the bony intrusion of a heavy something that had at least had the decency to target his ass rather than the small of his back, therefore sparing him actual paralysis. Seconds later he had a face-full of Noah kisses that had him protesting in an entirely new and vociferous way. He eventually ended up on the floor, backed into a corner, fending off the friendliest morning attack in existence, and seriously questioning the life choices that had led him to this moment in time.

"Noah, dude, I love you, but seriously, I now have more of your spit in my mouth than actual human spit." Chris clamped his mouth shut and aimed his face at the ceiling as the assault continued for another moment.

There was a familiar soft clucking sound, and Noah retreated. Chris took a minute to figure out why the hell his alarm was now apparently the doggy apocalypse. The events of the day before came flooding back and he took another minute before actually opening his eyes. His knee still fucking hurt like a motherfucker, though his headache had at least disappeared.

"Sorry."

Chris leveled his gaze at Zach, who was perched on the couch, cross-legged, looking both actually sorry and yet not nearly sorry enough.

"I made coffee?" he offered, eyes abruptly shading to actually sorry.

Chris made a noise meant to convey how that was appreciated, but not nearly enough to counteract everything that had come before it.

"I know."

Chris stumbled to the bathroom before going into the kitchen and collapsing into his chair at the table. His coffee was waiting for him. As was Zach, who looked - well, if he had to label it, Chris had to go with squirrely, which was so not a look that Zach normally did. "What's up?"

"Golf balls aren't really a hipster thing."

Chris froze, mug halfway to his mouth. "Well, shit." He drank deeply.

"Chris?"

And that was laughter in his voice, the mangy bastard.

"I'm a little disturbed by how much you actually know about Twilight."

"I swear to god, Zachary."

The glare must have been good because Zach sobered almost instantly, holding up apologetic hands and changing his tone to one of real sincerity and apology. "I'm sorry, Chris, about all of this. I let them railroad me like I normally wouldn't. I wasn't doing enough thinking for myself, I think I was probably in shock for a while-,"

"Zach, stop, just stop." Chris reached out and laid his hand over Zach's to get his attention and ground him to reality. "I know. I understand. We're all good. You're alive so we're good. That's all I really wanted, and I got what I wanted." He shrugged, and Zach relaxed. "So, no golf balls, huh? Bowling shoes, though, right? I got that right?"

Chris drank the coffee that was so much better than the stuff that usually followed his NPR alarm and let Zach's voice wash over him. He didn't really take in what his friend was saying, just watched him and felt him and existed within the room that was so very Zachary Quinto, alive and well, and sometimes downright evil with his doggy apocalypse alarm.

When he'd finished his coffee, he stood to pour himself the last half cup that was still in the pot on the counter - Zach's french press very annoyingly only made enough to fill two and a half of the mugs he used to serve coffee, which Chris always bitched about because they normally fought over that last half cup before one of them gave in and made a second round (Seriously, Zach, three mugs, we each get one and a half, no one is deprived. How hard is this?). Today he wasn't even going to go through the motions because he deserved that last half cup.

As he poured he said, "Three two three."

When he turned, Zach looked puzzled.

He said it again, insistently, "Three two three."

"Three two three?"

"Two nine four."

The confusion cleared from Zach's eyes. "Three two three. Two nine four," he repeated obediently.

Chris relaxed into his chair and savored the last of the good coffee. "Three two three. Two nine four. Five-,"

~Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure this particular Christopher and Zachary eventually work their way into this story: [**the waiting that happens in the space between**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1284085) (24027 words) by [**saramir**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saramir)  
>  Chapters: 1/1  
> Fandom: [Star Trek RPF](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Star%20Trek%20RPF), [Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Star%20Trek:%20Alternate%20Original%20Series%20\(Movies\))  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
> Relationships: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto  
> Characters: Zachary Quinto, Chris Pine, Simon Pegg, Zoe Saldana, Karl Urban, John Cho, Alice Eve, Jonathan Groff  
> Additional Tags: First Time  
> Summary:
> 
> In which Zach and Chris spend years bantering and having pseudo-intellectual conversations, and somehow, somewhere along the line, their friendship becomes the relationship to which Zach compares all other relationships.


End file.
